


Glimpses Into a Supernova

by ScribeOfRED



Category: Star Wars Legends: Force Unleashed - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Some Canon, Wordcount: 100, some AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-23 07:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 36
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4868639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfRED/pseuds/ScribeOfRED
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Force Unleashed drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Truce

Even as my lightsabers dropped from fingers unwilling to let go...

_What good are they if they don’t protect my heart?_

Even as my knees joined them on the rain-slick platform...

_I’ve bowed countless times before; today I would rather die._

Even as my hated Master’s will lingered around Juno’s slender throat a moment too long before releasing...

_My every dream was crushed in that same moment._

Even as rage boiled away the water on my skin in delicate wisps...

_Out of reach... She’s always out of reach..._

I knew this truce was as fragile as Juno’s broken windpipe.


	2. Sand

My Master never spoke about himself. His true name, planet of origin, age, species... Such things held no sway over my purpose for existing, nor was pursuit of this knowledge permitted.

Questions about my Master’s history only arose whenever I returned to the Executor’s secret level encrusted in sand—the only time I cleaned up before reporting to Vader. Everything—clothes, weapons, items—had to be meticulously cleaned, perfectly free of sand, before I could enter my Master’s presence. To ignore or question this command resulted in terrible pain.

My wonderings about my Master’s hatred of sand were never answered.


	3. Coma

It wasn’t unusual to find Rham Kota passed out, half off his seat in the cockpit, an empty bottle of Corellian wine cradled in one arm. We soon grew accustomed to stepping around his slumped figure—even Juno, who made it clear she wasn’t fond of the Jedi’s habit of drinking himself into a coma. PROXY’s complaints that it would be more convenient to stuff him into his minuscule quarters went, more often than not, unacknowledged. We never spoke about it, but I could tell Juno found the ex-Jedi’s quiet but still there breaths as reassuring as I did.


	4. Undertone

There were days aboard the Rogue Shadow when no one spoke. Most often, Kota was unconscious after his latest drinking binge. Occasionally the apprentice retreated to his quarters to sit in silent meditation, or perhaps assisted PROXY with repairs to his core.

But his favorite days were spent in the cockpit with Juno. It didn’t matter whether they were hunched over the navcomp, wordlessly plotting their next three jumps, or he watched her fine-tune the ship’s sensor array, passing the occasional tool, always at the right moment.

On those days, words would never be enough, so they didn’t try.


	5. Crest

_The Alliance Starbird_.

_The Phoenix_.

The insignia is simple, graceful, with round wings sweeping up, tapering into tips sharper than a vibroblade. To those who understand what its clean lines represent, it’s viewed as a symbol of hope, of courage, of strength rising to burn the Empire to the ground. Thousands have embraced the Starbird; it’s embroidered on tunics, painted on starships, stenciled on helmets and crates and blasters. Most often it is the crimson of fresh blood.

The multitude never learns the truth, for that pain is too deep to share.

A Phoenix can’t rises until it has fallen.


	6. Picturesque

The only thing Starkiller hated about traveling was spending time in hyperspace. The sensation of partially existing in another dimension— _of_ _not quite existing_ —of momentary disruptions in the Force itself, were sickening enough without staring through the blue whorl into something beyond even the Force.

He found distractions: training, meditation, studying (targets and otherwise), occasionally fending off another attack courtesy of PROXY’s impossible to predict programming. He became an expert at avoiding the cockpit.

Another pilot perished under Vader’s anger. Another stepped into the role.

And Starkiller soon realized the cockpit’s view was more pleasant than he remembered.


	7. Bravado

Sometimes he returns to the ship covered in blood. It’s rarely his, and he’s careful to always comm Juno before entering visual range. He knows from experience that females don’t react positively to copious amounts of blood.

Juno’s the exception. Without fail, she meets him at the ramp, medkit in hand. He usually waves it away, but sometimes there’s no alternative—and then she insists.

She’s neat and efficient, possessing hands steadier than a surgeon’s. Every single touch is soothing. Peaceful.

They both pretend the waves of anguish that overcome her the moment she flees to her quarters don’t happen.


	8. Shock

“I never wanted any of this for you. I’m sorry, Galen.”

Thought abandons me. I’m not aware of my hand reaching out toward the heavy brown cloak as it flutters once before vanishing into drifting vapor; not aware of a cruel tightening in my chest; not aware of the searing heat behind my eyes.

“Father, no.” The words are broken, as shattered as my mind—as my heart.

This is—was—my family’s home. We lived here.

My... _father_... died here.

_Father..._

_Mother..._

Two presences wisp against my cheeks. “ _Son_.”

Collapsing to my knees, I lower my head and scream.


	9. Angel

He doesn’t understand how he survived the fall. The cliff where he’d last seen Darth Vader is thousands of feet above him—impossible to survive, but it seems he has a talent for the impossible.

He’s cold. He hurts, but the cold mutes the pain to bearable levels. Come to think of it, the cold mutes everything. He’s tired. _Exhausted_. He’s lost; the Rebels have been taken, rounded up like scum to be executed. Without them, the galaxy is lost. The Sith have won.

He lets go of it all.

_Dark_.

It’s the tears of an angel that restore him.


	10. Warmth

Starkiller was never warm.

The _Executor_ swelled around him—massive sheets of durasteel welded into place by gigantic industrial machines.

He dueled his Master; PROXY; suffered through the burns in silence.

He visited planets’ surfaces: some covered with crystal sheets of ice; on others, only charred cinders remained.

And he grew colder still.

Not even the scorch of Vader’s lightsaber searing through his heart could warm him.

Dying in space chilled him further. Chilled him to death.

Juno’s lips collided with his, and an inferno ignited deep in his chest.

His hands met the Emperor’s, and her fire eclipsed everything.


	11. New

When he slides the focusing crystal he found in the Kashyyyk hut into his lightsaber, he senses an immediate change. Something is different. _He_ is different.

He thumbs the switch and a sky blue blade springs into existence with a _snap-hiss_ , and it’s a sound he’s never heard before, but has known all his life.

Hours later, Juno finds him staring into the lit blade.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs from behind him. “That shade of blue is my favorite color.”

He stands. Turns. Meets her steady gaze. “Mine too.”

Because the lightsaber is the same color as her eyes.


	12. Tame

“Ah, Juno, you’re up. I spoke to Kota and we’ve decided we need to return to Raxas Pri—oh. Uh, Juno?”

“Don’t say anything or I swear I will complete PROXY’s mission before he has a chance to.”

“But I... Your hair... it’s curly.”

“A fact of which I’m well aware.”

“But why—”

“Because it never fit under my hat. Military regulations demanded tame hair. I... suppose I’ve grown used to straight hair.”

“And today’s an exception?”

“Fugitive status means I’m not allowed to shop anymore.”

“Ah...”

“Don’t laugh!”

“I’m not.”

“You are!”

“Juno... Go back to straight. Please.”


	13. Age

They are replacing PROXY’s burned out holoemitters when she pops the question he’s been waiting months for her to ask.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

The hydrospanner ricochets off PROXY’s torso with a deafening clang and skitters to a stop on the floor. “Seventeen.”

He retrieves the hydrospanner and holds it out. “Yes.”

“I... don’t...” The words are whispered, but he can see molten anger beneath the crystal shards of her eyes.

She reaches for the hydrospanner, then latches onto his wrist. “Vader will die for what he’s done to you.”

He brushes a thumb across her knuckle. “For everything.”


	14. Costume

Starkiller never wore white. He couldn’t. Attempts to wear white resulted in disaster: a brutal upheaving of the Force that no one but his Master could survive.

He’d lost his first pilot—and ship—to white.

White was _pure_.

White was _innocent_.

White was _perfect_.

White was the color of those he killed. The white robes of dignitaries, the white hair of those trapped in the past, the white of self-proclaimed heroes.

Starkiller wasn’t a hero, so he couldn’t wear white.

Galen knew he wasn’t a hero either, but he didn’t choose to wear white.

The white chose him.


	15. Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double-length drabble

Through Darth Vader’s betrayal, I learn the ways of the Sith. Anger and hatred and rage and _revenge_ and _destiny_... They are more a part of me than the metallic air cycling through once-shattered lungs, and I willingly descend into their fiery, out of control depths, where I am burned alive by their all-consuming need to destroy.

_I refuse to be destroyed._

Passion. Strength. Power. Victory.

By living out these tenants, I become more than just a man.

_I bend anger and hatred to my will, leave them with nothing but surrender, and from the inferno I emerge master: controller of the uncontrollable._

_I see Darth Vader, the Emperor, and their vast Empire bowing before me._

_I see myself crushing them into something so insignificant it isn’t named._

_I see the galaxy itself lying prostrate in my presence, and I consume it in fire and blood._

_I become all, and all becomes me._

_Then why is there no victory?_

The scent of lubricant, the touch of cool leather, the whisper of gentle reassurances... Each brush against my senses—familiar, grounding, comforting...

_Dying_...

The moment I choose to pursue Juno’s fading presence is the moment I accept Vader’s offer to become his apprentice once more.

And I become victory itself.


	16. Friendship #1

“So... PROXY... you’re going to help me train?”

“Yes, Master, that is one of my lesser functions.”

“Lesser? What is your main function?”

“My primary programming dictates I am to kill you when I get the chance.”

“Kill me? Has Vader determined I’m no longer useful?”

“Not at all, Master. In fact, he is quite pleased with your progress. You wouldn’t understand—you are only six.”

“What else can you do?”

“I am programmed to become your friend.”

“A friend who tries to kill me. Am I allowed to kill you in return?”

“Of course, Master.”

“Then let’s be friends.”


	17. Mystery

Kota knew he was traveling with fools. He had insisted his link to the Force had been cut.

The female pilot believed him; she didn’t have any reason not to.

The boy... Kota couldn’t tell, nor could he risk any sort of probe to be certain.

But he knew—from the moment the boy kicked his table on Cloud City—who he was. Anyone with a half-witted attunement to the Force could sense his raw power; the savage darkness lurking within.

More than once Kota pondered killing him.

He didn’t understand why he didn’t until after the boy’s death.


	18. Painting

At the sharp intake of air beside him, Starkiller looked up to find Juno staring out the viewscreen with wide eyes.

“Juno?”

She blinked, then turned to him. “Look.” She pointed outside. “Wouldn’t that make a spectacular painting?”

He glanced out. They were ascending through Kashyyyk’s upper atmosphere; he saw the sharp edge of the planet, green against the living black of space. Behind it, barely visible, was the system’s sun. Orange-lined clouds chased the planet’s horizon.

“I suppose.” He shrugged. “I don’t know the first thing about art.”

She smiled. “Art is everywhere—you just need to look.”


	19. High

The dark side was a drug.

Starkiller desired power—the power to overthrow the Emperor and take the galaxy for his own.

Galen desired power—the power to protect Juno from any who wished to harm her.

Starkiller hated—hated the Jedi and their deluded, feeble grasp of the Force and its true nature.

Galen hated—hated his Master for the monster he’d been raised to become.

Starkiller was consumed—consumed by the euphoria of killing another being.

Galen was consumed—consumed by the euphoria of learning he was loved by another.

Both Starkiller and Galen were addicts.

Neither survived.


	20. Low

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double-length drabble

“ _And remember... that the dark side is always with you_.”

_Vader is right_. The dark side is always with me.

Day, night, realspace, hyperspace... It doesn’t matter—the words lacerate my mind: savage, unceasing, unmerciful.

_I can’t escape_. I’ll never escape.

I shouldn’t use the dark side—Kota is so close: what if he senses the seething darkness within me?

_I can’t control this rage_... It burns me alive...

I must use the light side, but using it exhausts me—I was trained to reject it, and even a moment’s use requires intense, power siphoning concentration.

_I want to give in._ I want to release myself to the violent dance of untamed fury and power.

Heat crackles across my skin, warping the flesh of my palms, twisting my fingers into claws eager to sink into my prey.

_Yes. My prey... The Jedi._ The Jedi will die.

But then I will lose the trust of those I’ve enticed to join my rebellion: men and women I’ve fought so hard to convince we’re worth joining.

_I can’t kill the Jedi_... because with every breath I take, I’m tempted further into the light.

But the dark side is there also, a droning whisper inside my skull: promises of power, of destruction, of death.

_It will never go away_... Never, because the dark side is a drug and I am addicted—and not even the light can absolve my craving.

For every moment spent in the light amplifies my lust for the dark.


	21. Shields

All my life I had been kept behind shields.

First a growth vat. These memories were faint and almost never surfaced, but occasionally I imagined I was still hanging suspended in the life sustaining, life _restricting_ fluids.

Then behind walls as I trained. Vader ensured I was never allowed outside my allotted training areas. His methods were excruciating and effective.

Shields—thick, impenetrable planetary shields—kept me from Juno. She was on Kamino, and I was in the uppermost atmosphere with nothing but a critically damaged cruiser beneath me. It was enough.

When we kissed, my final barrier shattered forever.


	22. Bisection

As an Imperial pilot, I was taught basic hand-to-hand combat, but the only violence I ever partook in was from behind the controls of my starfighter.

Our escape from the _Empirical_ changed that.

At first I watched only—duels with PROXY, then solo practices, armed and unarmed.

_Every gravity-defying leap stole my breath..._

To my surprise, he was the first to ask if we could train together, and train we did: long, painful hours spent learning how to incapacitate an opponent a hundred different ways.

In the end, it amounted to nothing.

My attack failed.

Vader lived.


	23. Free

The Empire’s version of freedom was a joke; the Sith’s, even more. Or perhaps it made more sense inverted: slaves to the dark side, the Sith ruled all, and they held the galaxy hostage by way of their white-and-black masks. The Sith hoped the artificial white would blind them to the truth, but no one, not even the most powerful Sith ever, could deceive an entire galaxy, one filled with trillions of sentient beings. Some saw beyond the masquerade. Some spoke against it. Some fought against it.

Some were lost, but the seed of freedom had been planted.


	24. Friendship #2

“Another duel, I presume?”

“Yes. We’ll need to purchase more holoemitters—this is our last one.”

“Wait a minute. I don’t understand something. PROXY is programmed to kill you, right?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you still care for him.”

“Of course. He’s my friend.”

“Normal friends don’t try to kill one another.”

“Then maybe we’re not normal. But PROXY has been with me for as long as I can remember, and he’s never betrayed me.”

“And to you that makes him a friend?”

“Yes.”

“But he tries to kill you!”

“I’m used to it, Juno. Stop worrying.”

“That’s... what friends do.”


	25. Tapestry

Kashyyyk had many gifts. When I braced myself to stand, sharp metal bit through the thick leather of my glove and sliced my palm open.

What I pulled from the slated wooden floor was worth the pain of sliced tendons.

Cupped in my hand, crimson against crimson blood, rested a metal pendant. A bird, identical to the one on the half shredded tapestry on the wall.

Warmth surged up my arm and settled in my chest.

_This is your heart_. _Do not squander it_.

Later, I handed the pendant to Juno. I figured it was better than giving her flowers.


	26. Mood

I learned sharing a confined space with a woman took getting used to. Rules began to crop up the moment Juno stepped aboard the _Rogue Shadow_.

_All duels had to be kept contained to the training room_. No exceptions. Even PROXY obeyed that one.

_Her quarters were off limits_. No exceptions.

_I was forbidden to enter more than one life-or-death situation a day_.

Some rules I could keep. Some I couldn’t. Others...

_Unless I was in the training room or my quarters, I had to wear a shirt_.

Others rules made no sense, since they was never enforced.


	27. Segregated

“Those who oppose us must be killed.”

The synthesized rumble of my Master’s voice vibrates through my being. The dark side accompanies it: a sizzling burn as it physically impresses his will into my cells.

“Yes, Master.” I know better than to fight the sensation—it is futile and leads to pain more terrible than this—but my curiosity isn’t so easily tamed. “Why must they die?”

“They are traitors to the Empire. Their crimes are unforgivable. It will be your duty to eliminate them.”

“I understand, Master.” The pain recedes, and I rise. “They shall die. All of them.”


	28. Color

Beside me, Starkiller drops into the padded copilot’s seat with his usual lithe grace, but something isn’t right. I observe him askance.

My fingers freeze above the controls. His tunic is... green. And not just any green—it’s like hazel, but darker. Richer. There’s a depth to it, one I can’t focus on but know is there.

Our eyes meet. I’m shaken by the raw uncertainty in his, dimming their starburst sienna to a dull brown.

I take his hand in mine. “It’s perfect.”

My stars flame once more. “And it’s not black.”

Warmed, I smile. “No. It’s much better.”


	29. Book

Next to flying, Juno loved reading best. Sadly, as first leader of Vader’s Black Eight Squadron, then Starkiller’s pilot, reading time was nonexistent.

Her rude discharge from the Empire meant spare time—enough to catch up on her holonovel list.

She curled up in the pilot’s seat, datapad loaded with her favorite romances.

“Juno?”

She swiveled to face Starkiller, who leaned, shirtless, arms crossed, against the open door.

“Yes?”

“Would you care to spar?”

“I...” She nibbled on her lower lip, debating. Oh, why not? She stood. “I’d love to.”

Time for holonovels was hard to come by after that.


	30. Message

“Juno, if you are watching this, then I am dead.

“I don’t have much time so I’ll try to keep this short. I... I love you, Juno. I always have, from the moment you interrupted PROXY’s description of you. That description... it doesn’t do you justice. Nothing could. You are amazing: intelligent, beautiful, tender.

“You are my light, Juno. Without you I would be lost—an eternal slave to the dark side.

“Don’t be sad. I died protecting you, and that’s all that matters to me. Share you hope with the galaxy, Juno. Please.

“May the Force be with you.”


	31. Defectiveness

You love Juno, and it’s why Vader has ordered your death.

_You refuse to kill her—it goes against every Force saturated atom in your body._

That he’s entrusted your demise to a squad of troopers tells more than any abuse of how little he cares for your life.

_At least when he’s still breaking you he still hasn’t terminated your usefulness._

The troopers lift their rifles. Muzzles spit superheated plasma at your head. You don’t care.

_Without her beside you, there is no point._

Maybe your next self will be the one to break this loop of perpetual failure.


	32. History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of a trilogy of prompts

“Starkiller, how many beings have you killed?”

“Targets, collateral, or both?”

“Um... targets.”

“One hundred sixteen.”

“Somehow I expected more... Were they all political enemies?”

“Most, yes. I’ve also wiped out two attempted rebellions before they could generate much public attention.”

“You said collateral. That means...?”

“Another two thousand, four hundred kills, give or take a couple dozen.”

“I... I had no idea. How—no, I shouldn’t ask.”

“It’s fine, Juno.”

“I don’t think—”

“Juno. I don’t mind.”

“How... do you live with yourself? All those deaths...”

“I know they’ve joined the Force. But that doesn’t stop the nightmares.”


	33. Dragon

Every time I attempt sleep, the nightmares begin anew. Dark. Violent. Hateful. I am killing people. Good people—people not afraid to stand against the Empire.

They’re so brave.

I’ve fought nightmares all my life, but these are different. The Force—neither dark nor light; just the Force—is haunting me with these images, forcing me to relive every single atrocity I have committed in the name of freedom.

I’m not free.

Every face I have ever killed appears, each to claim revenge on my body. I burn, _I burn_...

It’s too much

I scream. Wake.

But I’m still burning.


	34. Consequence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double-and-a-half length drabble

Starkiller is slowly dying, and it’s tearing me apart because I can do nothing but watch.

They started as simple nightmares. They’ve evolved into something infinitely more deadly.

The horrors inflicted upon him are becoming real.

He refuses to sleep, but he can’t stay awake forever—it’s impossible. Seven times he’s collapsed, unconscious. Each time, I’m unable to wake him, only watch, helpless, as he thrashes about—tortured by the Force until he has the strength to drag forth a return to consciousness.

I’m terrified, almost as exhausted as he is, but I can’t leave him. Not during his waking hours. Not during his living nightmares. I watch burns appear, without apparent reason, across his skin. Lacerations. Stab wounds. Bruises. Hear bones snap. Watch his face contort. Listen to his feral screams, transmitted across vocal cords seared raw.

Conscious. Unconscious. Both are hell. I can’t decide which is worse—for either of us.

He’s awake right now—if such a state can be called _awake_. His body is broken. He should be dead—these are injuries no one can survive. Not even him.

But he still breathes—the terrible, ragged breaths of one beyond exhaustion, beyond control.

“J’no... love... you...”

I brush my lips across his—deathly cold, feverishly hot—then lay my head on his blood soaked chest and cry.

He’s dying under the eternal weight of his sins, and I can do nothing but watch.

Watch and pray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trilogy complete


	35. Jealous

The moment Starkiller saw Juno’s expression as she marched towards him, he knew he was in trouble.

“I want to know something,” she said, crossing her arms, “and I want you to tell me the truth.”

The urge to glance behind him was tantalizing, but he resisted. “Of course."

“Why do all of your missions involve attractive females?”

They had? “I wasn’t aware of that.”

Her eyes became slits. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then don’t.” He turned away, then paused. Glanced back. “Juno.”

She met his gaze.

“I could never notice them; there’s only one worth my attention.”

“Who?”

“You.”


	36. Dress

Galen straightens his formal tunic, uncertain why he is nervous when this is what he wants.

This is _all_ he wants.

Heels click on polished floor, and he turns. Words fail him.

Long, long legs disappear under a charcoal hem. One creamy shoulder is bare; the other bears the weight of the simple, elegant dress.

Her fingers twist around one another. “Are you ready?”

He blinks, tears his eyes away from curves he’s never noticed before and already loves. Takes her hands and presses a kiss to her forehead. “I am.”

They enter as two beings and exit as one.


End file.
